skin and bone
by LYNSPIRE
Summary: she's a whirlwind, a sky bird, a cloud, so hard to grasp; or maybe she just didn't fall as hard.
1. cumulus

_skin and bone._

this is a nonprofit work of fanfiction. my character and plot belong to me. I do not own the My Hero Academia franchise, nor am I affiliated with Kohei Horikoshi.

* * *

 _chapter one._

cumulus

* * *

It's a bit chilly outside.

Jazz music fills the air, mixing with muted chatter, radio static, and the gentle snip of a pair of shiny scissors. A chair creaks as it's shifted, the mirror on the wall reflecting hazy, muddled daylight streaming through the flimsy curtains. Dull locks of moist hair make a thump as they fall the the mat beneath them, damp from a recent washing. Their owner, a housewife with a stylish bob, yabbers cheerfully about her youngest's first day at preschool, her voice worn in like an old pair of sneakers, fitting loosely in the quiet salon.

She continues to ramble in varying tones of pride and anticipation, about her son's wild dreams, about the heroes he draws in his picture books, with gleaming grins and colorful costumes, shaped by the smallest of hands and haphazard scribbles.

"You wanted to be a hero once too, didn't you, darlin'?"

The hairdresser pauses, the comb in her hand tugging loose hair and droplets of water. They plop against the floorboards, in a pleasant manner that resembles rain.

"Of course. It's every child's dream, after all."

Distantly, the clock clicks. It's placed next to a photo of a blonde-haired woman and a stout toddler with spiky russet tresses. The glass is cracked, but a colorful band-aid had been slapped onto the frame.

"Can't with my quirk, though." The hairdresser continues, in a jaded sorted way that suggests she had repeated these words many times before, "I can just make hair grow longer—not my own, but everyone else's—what's a hero do with that?"

The woman shuffles in her chair. "'Least it's perfect for your profession."

The hairdresser chuckles half-heartedly, wincing. "It was a real pain getting a license, though."

In the hallway, toes shuffle against the carpet, an inhale followed by an exhale, both so muted they could have been considered a curious breeze. The door opens just a peak, and in peer two wayward eyes, barely noticeable behind a curtain of heavy bangs.

"Well," the woman grins, gesturing towards her bob with calloused hands and a sheepish grin, "I'm sure glad you're workin' here. I've been getting compliments every time I walk out of this place."

The hairdresser laughs, golden locks shifting as she shakes her head, bitterness mixing with old memories. "I'm glad I'm not a hero. It's a bad world, out there."

"'S true." The woman replied, an untraceable understanding laced throughout, "The world takes and gives. The only people who have a say in it all are the heroes, of course."

The hairdresser seems as if she's known this all along. "So," she mumbles breezily, "what are people like us supposed to do?"

Outside, the wind shifts, revealing a bit more of the sky, filling the room with a sort of ethereal light.

"Who knows," the woman shrugs, "but in times like these, I like to think about the good things."

She grins, a crinkled, crooked thing, head shifting in tandem to the radio's gentle crescendo. "It's a nice day out today."

* * *

Sorano wakes with the pigeons, as she always does. She wakes with chirps, the honks of nearby horns, the smell of gasoline, and the chill of the fan creaking back and forth in the far corner; with this, Sorano steps out of bed.

She stumbles slightly, her legs sore and lids sagging like old rags. She leans on the creaky mattress, then after regaining her balance, she creaks open her closet and shuffles towards it,, the chill of the floorboards seeping through her worn grey socks.

She stops in front of a mirror hanging on the wall, next to a pile of folded laundry. She met eyes with her plain reflection, used to the dampened features that stared back: her hair, spiky locks shoulder length and full of knots she had given up trying to untangle; her eyes, the ones she had gotten used to seeing in shop windows, the ones that stare back with the same nonchalant look within them, the ones her aunt had given up trying to decipher. Her hair, her eyes, brown. Brown like dirt. Brown like rotten bananas. Brown like the decaying shit you find on the side of the road.

However, Sorano doesn't mind the mud framing her face, nor the mud surrounding her murky pupils. She also doesn't mind the creases on her forehead, nor the scabs on her palms from being tripped too many times in the hallways. Sorano doesn't mind all of that. It is the way it is; there is nothing wrong with the way her body looks, nor the fact that her earthy tresses resemble an overused mop (she is used to being teased for her looks, she can't care less.) She shrugs on her uniform, buttoning her clothing languidly.

Her uniform is worn, the once neat creases in the skirt now limp and lighter and color. The skirt and jacket are navy blue, and the white button-up is meant to be worn with a bow, but instead, Sorano wraps a light yellow sweater around her neck, pausing slightly to bury her nose in the woolen material. It's a brighter hue, and clashes with her hair, but Sorano doesn't mind that, either.

The upstairs hallway is dark in the mornings without a window to supply light. The kitchen is crammed in the corner, a small sitting area on the opposite side, near the staircase. Her aunt's room is empty, the door slightly ajar.

In the floor below, someone laughs. There's the whir of a hairdryer and muffled chatter. Sorano wanders down the stairs like a lost child, her scuffed red backpack slung on one shoulder, the stairs creaking wearily beneath her feet.

Sorano peeks into the salon through the creaky door. Her aunt is chuckling about something, shaking her head, blond locks falling loose from her messy bun. Sorano can't get a clear view of the customer's face, she has never heard his voice before. She decides not to interrupt.

Outside the air is dry, tasting crisp and clear on her tongue. The dawn is syrupy, the sun hanging leisurely on the horizon, hiding behind the skyscrapers stretching in the distance. The path is lined with shambolic bushels of rough leaves, once perfectly round in shape but now overgrown, the branches creeping, leaves browning tips turning to gray as the world prepares for winter.

Upon the leaves sit a hundred beads of water, each one a perfect sphere, brilliant in the morning rays. Each drop sits so lightly, yet together they are enough to cause the each unsightly bush to shine. So clear is the morning haze that even these scatterings of dew are significant, brightening the path like speckled lanterns. Soon the gentle heat of the morning will send them back to the clouds and the leaves will stretch their limbs, calling to the remainder of the spring.

Sorano sighs. She's so tired, sometimes.

Sorano boards the train at seven twenty two. She steps into the crowded machine and makes her way over to a spot by a window. She hears the clank of metal as the train doors squeak shut, and the screech of the wheels that begin pushing the old vehicle forward. Buildings and houses speed past, and train tracks become too numbered to count. Idly, Sorano adjusts her uniform buttons as the train chugs along. The teen glances around her.

Trains are the perfect place for people watching.

Today, there is a man who continuously checks his watch. His third eye is trained on his wrinkly newspaper, while the other two check his arm for the time every second. Nearby, two older woman chat noisily about an upcoming baby shower, one with a lizard head, the other with a scaled, silvery tail. A young school boy whines as his mother levitates his candy bar out of his reach—after scolding him for eating too much.

 _How it become the norm is unknown_ , she wonders with mild, distrait confusion, _quirks are so weird._

The nicest part about trains, Sorano finds, is that she doesn't have to talk to anyone around her. She doesn't have to know anyone, to understand anyone, here she can just be a stranger; here, Sorano is just another girl riding the train. She isn't 'Corpse' or 'Sorano', she is just a _stranger_ , and nobody knows her.

These are the moments she lives for.

When the rickety tracks smooth out and the chatter of the train grows, she knows she is approaching her destination. Her grip loosens, she lets go of the cool metal ceiling handle and waits as the train slows to a stop.

People leap off like antelope—but Sorano takes her time, fiddling with her backpack straps and stepping off right as the doors swing shut behind her. In the bustle of the station, she begins to walk, noticing the breeze—the sun is a little higher in the sky, gentle rays streaming past bustling figures and shuffling limbs.

The station is not far from Sorano's school. One of the many public middle schools, the one closest to Sorano's home, a wretched place stuffed to the brim with pubescent pre-teens—riled up and ready to live more independently. Sorano is silent still, when the cars honk around her, when people scurry about—she steps off corners, moves swiftly through crowds and clumps of pedestrians, hops on the patterns in the sidewalk.

She gets to school and the hallway is loud, overwhelmingly so. Her teacher is late, again. However, she is late as well, and she wants to run out of the room when her classmates glance her way. She shuffles through the door, and after a millennia of bashful trudging, she plops in her assigned chair, no noise nor greeting coming from her mouth.

Chatter arises. Sorano represses the urge to sigh when a boy sprouts wings and starts to float about the classroom, while his friends laugh and cheer him on.

Sorano soon hears the familiar clink of heels, and their stern teacher enters the room. There is an immediate scolding, and the boy lands swiftly, shrinking back into his seat. However, the chatter does not die away.

"Please," her teacher sighs, interrupting the noisy classroom, "let's all settle and learn for once, alright?"

There is immediate silence—no one feels up to a lecture.

Class begins with the flipping of textured notebook pages and occasional yawns or heavy breaths. Pencil scratching and tapping on paper is a mild noise that relaxes her into a trance. It is quiet and delicate, yet also elicited such a wide range of tiny sounds that it is impossible to grow tired of them. It keeps her amused far more than any app on her phone can as her hand can move the utensil in such a way that shapes or words or numbers take form, in muddled messes all over the page. Sorano sits through her subjects patiently; she slouches and tries her best to pay attention, distracted by her mind and the scrawled drawings of budding flowers.

A paper hits the back of her head, which causes Sorano to jolt forward in surprise, and slump when the crumpled ball plops onto her marked-up desk. She unfolds the note with careful precision, so her teacher won't notice.

 _CORPSE_ , it reads. How uncreative. She's heard the name so many times, may it be scratched on her desk or whispered behind her back or yelled at her face, so many times that it shouldn't even hurt anymore.

She drops it in the waste bin on her way out the door, ignoring the snickers that follow.

The school hallway stinks. The smell of the stale urine curls from under the restroom doors, depressing and mixed with deodorant and body odor in equal measure. A typical public middle school on the bad side of town, that has long since stopped "wasting money" on janitors.

Sorano keeps her her head low and pushes her way through the sea of despondent faces. Another day of fatigue rammed down their throats with the keen sting of stress—always the tests, always the reports, always the reminders of the consequences of failure. A classmate tries to push her, yet she shoves past the offending stranger as an aggressive attempt to get to the wall.

The front of Sorano's old locker is covered in scratches and stains of smudged sharpie, with faint remains of graffiti that Sorano had desperately tried to scrub away at one point. Now she has given up on keeping the door clean, and she barely notices the new insults scrawled in red marker, standing out against the navy blue metal.

She unlocks the door and grabs her textbook for her Japanese Literature class. The only thing Sorano has going for her is her ability to memorize, which keeps her in high-level classes; Sorano always makes an effort to ace her tests. At least she is going to graduate, go off to high school in a couple of months with different people who hopefully won't find out about Sorano's disgusting abnormality.

 _"Move!"_ Someone demands, and Sorano is slammed against the lockers, breath knocked out of her temporarily. The person who shoved her was already gone when she finally catches her breath, and now her papers are strewn across the chipped tiles, becoming increasingly covered in dirt and footprints as they are mercilessly trod upon.

Sorano stumbles, trying to cling to the belongings that hadn't yet slipped from her grasp, but can only watch as the essay she had stayed up the night before writing is torn to pieces under a stranger's sole.

..Japanese Literature doesn't matter much, anyways.

So here she is again, an eighth grader of skinny stature; she lays sprawled out on her back, gazing up at the clouds, watching, watching, watching. The ground beneath her is rough, scraping against the backs of her knees, uneven concrete digging into her skin. Her scarf spills out around her, tangled with the locks of her muddy tresses. The wind is polluted and tastes of cigarette smoke but the sky is ever so blue, she wants to fly away; she wishes her quirk could turn her into a bird so she can just fly away, but the roof is surrounded by a fence, and the fence surrounds the sky; even if she was a bird she could never get out of their cage; watching, watching, watching.

Her phone beeps in her jacket's pocket, and she pulls it out in a sloppy manner, flipping it open and holding it above her head to block out the sun. The screen is dim under the sky's glaring rays.

[can you pick up some coffee beans on your way home from school?]

Sorano exhales.

[yeah]

She runs her knobby fingers through her hair, but only gets halfway through when her nails catch painfully on a clump of untamed mess. So she leaves her hands there and is still, not caring if she misses the next few minutes of her class because all she wants is to see the clouds float above her, for just a little longer.

* * *

The roses seem to glare at her. Peeking out on racks in the convenience mart, they wilt, alone and forgotten, their once brilliant red petals scumming to mold and patsy brown. They are bitter, bitter roses, with brief existences that serve little purpose other than jazzing up the entrance of a store that should've closed long ago. Bitter, angry, short-lived roses. (Sorano knows roses don't have such thoughts, but she is unable to walk past the vases without flinching and looking away)

She finishes her painful journey past the dying flowers, but stops near the sliding door entrance, her dirty sneakers squeaking a bit on the tile. Her gaze meets a scentless flower, one she will see for the last time. It is alone in its state, a single living rose in the miles of brown bushels that seem to stretch out forever down the aisle; one rose just as red as the others might have been, holding onto its short and brief life with such certainty. It is small, beautiful. But just like the others—soon, in a day at most, its petals will fall and it will rot away into dust.

Sorano wanders towards the back of the market, picking up a bushel of bananas and a bag of dark roast coffee beans on her way. In the chilly frozen aisle, a boy with curly hair is searching through the meats, eyes scrunched up in a concentration that seems too intense for such a meaningless choice.

Sorano watches him for a while, before he finally picks out his product, and places it in the grocery basket dangling loosely under his left arm.

"I like your shirt." She states. It is soft and careful and afraid, as if speaking too loud might cause him to actually hear her—

The boy jumps, startled. His eyes, dilated and swirling with hues of forest green, blink at her in utter confusion before his face lights up in a scarlet blush; the two strangers in the market stare at each other in timid silence, afraid that breaking it would whisk away the spell of the moment.

She stares at him and he stares at her—he has a bruise on one of his freckled cheeks, she has bruises under her sagging eyes; they stand in the frozen aisle, albeit chilly, watching, watching, watching.

"T-thank you," the boy stutters finally, before turning and scampering away like a frightened mouse. The aisle is empty again, with only Sorano and the rows of red, red meat. (He looked like he had never received a compliment, and Sorano is sure she had never given one before.)

With this, Sorano hands the sum to the cashier and drifts out the sliding doors, parting onto the sidewalk and moving into the mid-day traffic.

The crowd flows down the wide avenue the same way the river always meets its banks. The mood of the people swirls in unseen currents beneath the dark surface of their faces. The only sound is their feet on the aging tarmac and the howl of the wind rising above them. Every one of them has been feeling the chill of the fall through their tired clothes and worn shoes, stomping across crosswalks and sidewalks, seeping in and out of doorways and alleys.

Such is the bustle of the city. Yet, there is a disturbance in the current, a boulder in the river that traffic fails to flow around or through. Here, a mass of people is clumped together in a blurred, dizzying mess; a strident timbre of collected voice, a cacophony of applause, cheering, whooping, hollering, clapping, stamping of feet filling the air, causing Sorano's ears to ring and buzz while she approaches the blocked path.

There is a woman in the middle of the road, who looks somewhat familiar. She stands as if she could save the world. She grins as if nothing can stop her. She bares the weight of the crowd's expectations, but carries them with such confidence that even the reporters are left in awe. She grins with her triumph and she grins at the people she saved, one leg propped on the tied-up villain pinned beneath her foot, the other keeping her body balanced and stable. Her hands rest upon her hips, she poses as a movie star would've. Cameras flash, reporters shout, the woman grins and grins and grins.

The crowd is squealing as journalists surround the scene. When the unnamed villain struggles to break free, strangers shout the pro-hero's name with triumphant smiles.

" _GO, THUNDERBOLT_!" they cry, " _WE LOVE YOU, THUNDERBOLT_!"

Thunderbolt baths in the praise, that is, until, the villain, waking due to the noise, rolls out from under her foot, all the while snickering and cursing her out.

"The finishing move!" someone in the crowd yells, "Do the finishing move!"

The crowd's palpable excitement tingles through the charged air with infectious grins. The yelling turns to a chant, and Thunderbolt laughs heartily, raising her fist. A bolt of supercharged lightning shoots from the clouds, twisting in a heavenly arch and slamming into the villain in the arena of shouting civilians. The lightning crackles and rumbles, the sky around twisting into itself, eerily dark. All Sorano can hear over the roaring of the crowd are the distant booms and surges of thunder.

The crowd shifts in anticipation. The ground shakes. A chunk of cement shears off a building and falls from the sky.

The world is in slow motion. The flashing jolts to a halt, Thunderbolt turns her bright eyes, the crowd freezes, and the rock descends slowly, tumbling through the air, drawing near a small boy clutching his mother in the crowd below.

Sorano runs with a feeling she didn't know she had. The grocery bags fall from her hands and she stumbles, her sneakers scratching against the pavement; she shoves past the people while they scream and scream and scream. She doesn't make a sound; she scampers beneath the falling rock and throws her body over the mother and child; her ribcage sprouts from her back, piercing through her uniform jacket and creating a barred, skeletal cocoon above the family. She feels the weight of the stone vibrate through her bones, sees the terrified faces of the people beneath her, and cringes as one of her ribs crack while the slab rolls off the protective roof of her white skeleton and onto the road next to them.

There is silence.

Then the crowd _roars._

Sorano's protective shield retreats into her spine, her ribs repairing themselves, her shoulders shifting and bones moving beneath her skin. The woman she saved stumbles to her feet, showering Sorano with "thank-you"s, sobbing happily and kissing both of Sorano's rapidly coloring cheeks. The boy giggles at her in his mother's arms, gazing up at the teen in admiration, like Sorano is the greatest person in his whole world.

Thunderbolt is suddenly there, standing above Sorano as the exhilaration fades and the teen sinks to the pavement.

The pro hero holds out her hand, smirking as she had on the television so many years before in the UA sports festival ( _that's_ how Sorano recognized her, the teen remembered watching with her, standing unmatched in the arena with a grin as shiny as the stars.)

 _"You wanted to be a hero once too, didn't you, darlin'?"_

"That was amazing, kid!" Thunderbolt voices in a prideful way, her lips splitting to reveal flashy teeth, "You're certainly on the road to becoming a pro hero like myself—you've got the makings of one, after all! Since you helped me in a pinch, I oughta' make it up to you!"

 _"It's every child's dream, after all."_

Sorano is quivering, mouth open like a fish as gusts of air enter and exit her famished lungs. She pushes back the urge to cry, the concrete scratching her bare knees and eyes watering under fluttering lashes. There are too many people, too much noise, and now, everyone knows her for who she is, sees her for what she is—a _corpse_ —but she isn't she isn't she isn't—every breath stings like needles because they are staringandstaringand _staring_ —

The gloved hand grasps her calloused one and Sorano stumbles to her feet, locking her gaze with the bright-eyed pro hero.

"Someone outta teach you how to fake it, kiddo." The woman sneers playfully, "You're too jumpy and nervous; you look like you're shitting bricks just takin' to me."

Sorano is certain not one word the pro hero said is a compliment, yet the idea concerns her. "F-Fake it?"

The woman in front of her smiles, but it is as bitter as the roses and as muddled as the rainy sky; her lipstick is smudged and her eyes are shadowed and for a second she doesn't look like a hero at all but a tired, tired woman who is as watered down as the mud in the cracks in the sidewalks.

"Ever heard the saying, _fake it 'till you make it_?"

They are interrupted by the shouting and the frantic paramedics who are struggling to examine the frazzled mother and child. The crowd pulls them in like the tide and drags them both under in waves of noise; suddenly Sorano stops breathing.

The overwhelming and suffocating panic takes hold. Sorano grasps her beating heart, rumpling the fabric beneath her fist as she tries to calm its erratic pulses. Thunderbolt's strong arm keeps her steady, the hero's white-toothed smirk big and showy. Above and unknowing, the pro hero tugs Sorano close as the cameras and reporters close in like hunters. Sorano's lungs flutter and tighten; the teen is blinded by the flashes and deafened by the shouts, so all she can do is breathe.

Somewhere in the crowd Sorano sees a wisp of emerald green, soft and concerned and warm, but it is blurred by the flashing and clicking of cameras.

 _Breathe in..._

"How does it feel," one of the journalists asks her, as his microphone drops near her nose, "to be sponsored by a pro hero?"

 _Breathe out._

* * *

"You're late."

Her aunt stands in the doorway of the salon, waiting. Sorano steps inside and shuts the door behind her; the slam is muffed, she can hardly hear it behind the ringing in her ears.

"Sorry." She states vapidly. "I'm home."

Sorano moves to step around her, but her aunt lashes out, gripping her forearm desperately, nails digging into her jacket sleeve, crinkling it and creasing it around the elbow.

" _You_ —" Her aunt seethes, her face uncharacteristically twisted in rage, "I was worried about you!"

"Sorry," Sorano repeats. The clock ticks.

"You can't just throw yourself into danger like your life doesn't matter!" Her aunt screams, voice warbled, "You're not a _hero_ , Sorano!"

How many times has she heard this? Though subdued, her aunt's hatred towards the hero world and all it entailed, hatred towards quirks, hatred towards the unfairness of it all. Quiet, suffering abhorrence, tucked away into whispers behind creaky doors, jaded smiles and poorly disguised frowns. The quick switch of the radio when the news came on, the absent television, the vacant walls, the strict curfews.

 _You saved—_

How many times?

 _You've got the makings of—_

"But I want to be."

Her aunt reels back as if she has been struck.

The pause that falls is heavy; it feels like there is a weight on their shoulders. As if moving through water, Sorano drifts to the mirror, meeting eyes with her plain reflection. She floats there, asking the girl that stares back at her for answers. The reflection says nothing, only licking its lips. She's bitter. She can taste it.

"I don't like my hair." Sorano mentions absentmindedly. The teen's voice is vacuous and her eyes are foggy. "I want to cut it all off."

Her aunt seems to unfreeze, as if someone has finally hit play on the remote control; her aunt smiles. It's trembling and small and suddenly the woman seems old and worn, bags under her eyes dark and tired. She nods.

A faint whirring fills the air. The device in her aunt's hand is small and metallic, with strange blades at the end that make it seem almost menacing. The noise of it grows louder when it nears Sorano's head, and Sorano almost feels nervous. Yet something doesn't feel right.

"Are you ready?" Her aunt asks, her voice slightly scratchy; a pang of guilt shocks Sorano again.

"No," Sorano blurts—her voice sounds more sure than she is, "I want to do it."

Her aunt pauses, but not a single reply fills the now gaping silence.

The tool is handed to Sorano, who takes it with shaking fingers. Watching the mirror before her, Sorano stands, knees locking as she steps closer to the mirror.

It is surprisingly easy. Swift, smooth, short strokes send the mess of tangled hair and tangled emotions and tangled messes of feelings falling to the floor and swirling down at her feet as if they had never been there at all.

She shears more, and more, she shears it away and she can suddenly see herself, eyes clear and all the more brighter, the same brown mud but shining so bright; her lips are so pretty, she never noticed before, her forehead hits her hairline just right, her bangs aren't covering her face anymore—

—gone is the curtain, gone is the tangled puzzle that could never be solved, gone is that suffocating feeling that everything is pointless and worthless; all that is left is Sorano, her dirt colored hair and her dirt colored eyes, and the words she always wanted to say dancing on her lips—

 _Do you think I,_

"Do you think—"

The locks of her hair engulf her feet as she turns, faltering, fingers quivering minutely, the dull lamp shadowing her face, the bruises on her arms, the cuts near her collarbone.

 _I want to,_

"I could be a hero?"

Her aunt's face breaks and splits and trembles all at once.

In the distance, the street lamp flickers on, artificial light crawling in, shifting once, twice, then settling near their feet.

"Of course."

The ringing in Sorano's ears doesn't cease. The teen leaves the door a crack open behind her and trudges halfway up the stairs before turning around, stiff in place. She steps down them again, silent as a ghost, with practiced ease—

in the hallway, her toes shuffle against the carpet, an inhale followed by an exhale, both so muted they could have been considered a curious breeze. The door opens just a peak, and in peer her two wayward eyes—

and with the terrible fire leaping up her throat all she can do was watch as her aunt collapses to her knees, rocketing with grieving sobs, clutching her face as if stopping to muffled wails; her bones are so fragile, ribs trembling beneath the wispy fabric of her shirt, the thin layer of her skin, so pitifully vulnerable, so piteously frail.

 _I wanted this,_ the voice inside her screams.

 _I wanted this._


	2. stratus

_skin and bone._

this is a nonprofit work of fanfiction. my character and plot belong to me. I do not own the My Hero Academia franchise, nor am I affiliated with Kohei Horikoshi.

* * *

 _chapter two._

stratus

* * *

In a meaningless past, "the aunt" was named Sasaki Mori. She was a woman of hard work and strong morals, admired by her peers, who said she would grow to do something great. She enjoyed cold weather and complex math equations. She dyed her hair different colors every month, and never grew it long. She was a woman of subtle beauty, the kind you would only find if you glanced twice.

She and her twin sister where connected at the hip, despite their pronounced differences; Mori had patience where her sister was hot-headed, Mori held grudges while her sister was ever-forgiving. And so, they pranced through life as all teenagers did, tipsy after parties and dancing in the trunk of someone's worn down truck, dreaming about the hero world with starry eyes and snarky grins. Then her sister met Akihisa Daiji, a man with hardened gaze and a heart that could only be warmed by pure kindness at its finest. They were perfect for each other. The wedding was perfect. Everything was perfect.

Then suddenly, it wasn't.

Mori didn't know what had happened. But the birth had sent stern, polite, hard-headed Daiji into a spiraling fit of madness, wasting away on street corners, drunk off his mind, slurring words about bastard children and reminiscing of a woman with long golden hair and seafoam eyes. Mori didn't want to get involved. But it was her sister's child, the woman who wore boot cut jeans like they were still in style, sang awful pop songs at the top of her lungs, half-smiling with lollipops hanging off her tongue—her sister's child. So she had to. She had to.

"Your sister had a hair growth quirk, like you, right?" the police officer inquired, "And the husband could replenish his own bone marrow..shame he wasted away like that. Poor lad."

Mori nodded along.

"She'll be taking your last name," The man stated in uncaring monotone, flipping to a new sheet on his clipboard languidly.

Mori shifted in the metal chair. There wasn't much else to say, so the officer left the room and she sat there, waiting.

When the door creaked open again, a toddler trotted in with a half-lidded stare—the unmistakable patter of tiny feet, followed by a light sigh; A mess of earthy tresses, russet eyes, peering up beneath heavy bangs and angled brows.

(Sorano looks just like her father.)

"You're my aunt?" She asked, face smooth and plain.

"Yes." Mori managed a smile, standing swiftly. The chair squeaked against the flooring when she stood. Sorano watched mutely.

"Are you hungry?" Mori asked carefully, stretching out a hand for the young girl to take. Sorano only stared at her palm with puzzled eyes, so Mori let it drop to her side, a pang of something awful in her heart. "Let's go to the lobby. They have some pastries there."

Sorano followed behind her, tottering weakly on unstable legs, so much so that Mori had to slow her pace in overwhelming pity. The bustle of the police station was a quiet murmur in the background, with the occasional beep ringing from the front desk as the receptionist picked up a call. There were muffins stretched on platters, sugar crusted on the tops, crumbs scattered on the stained tablecloth.. Sorano only watched as Mori took a paper plate, unwrapped the plastic paper in which the muffin was held, and crouched down to hand it to her, only for the toddler to gaze down at it blankly. Mori gestured for her to take it, but Sorano ignored the pastry and lifted her gaze, staring Mori deep in the eyes with tight lips and taunt cheeks.

"Papa didn't like me very much," Sorano mentioned; her expression was carefully mild, subdued. "I don't think you will, either."

Mori froze in place, the paper dishware almost slipping from her grasp.

"Now why would you think that?" she wondered anxiously; her voice trembled near the edges, despite it's facade of soft, child-like innocence.

Sorano took the plate from Mori's shaking fingers with the gentle care only a four year old child could muster.

"You've got rain clouds in your eyes, too."

Sorano's voice was soft, Mori had noticed. Sorano's voice was soft, and it could've been pretty if not for the slight rasp near the edges, as if at one point she had screamed so loud something had been permanently damaged in her throat. Mori didn't like thinking about that.

She didn't like thinking about anything, anymore; she started losing customers, making more mistakes, trimming too much or too little, distracted by the beady eyes peering in through the doorway.

At some point, Mori stopped being able to tell if Sorano was there, watching her every move as the scissors clipped and snipped. That scared her the most—but in being scared, she was also ashamed, guilty, poignant.

(Her sister's killer is a child.) Sorano was a small thing, with lethal weapons inside of her. It was so unfair, Fuck, it was _disgusting_. But Mori couldn't get angry—no, her sister was the temperamental one. Mori was patient; Mori was the neighborly, rational, easy-going one who cheered from the sidelines, who was always there to help. So the anger was shoved away, and what were left were tears.

"I'm sorry," Sorano murmured, her eyes downcast. "I dropped it."

She handed the picture frame over, its edges dented, the glass cracked. There were fingerprints on the glass, like little rabbit prints in snow.

"I tried to fix it. I'm sorry."

Over the crack was a haphazardly placed band-aid, a little crinkled, as if it had been stuck and peeled off multiple times in different spots in an indecisive manner. The fingerprints around it were smeared, but lighter than the rest, tumbled together with tender care.

(Her sister's killer is a child.)

Her tears had overflowed that day, and as always, Sorano only watched.

* * *

The creature in her shoe locker does not stir.

Wings mangled and broken, covered in dirt, once shimmery silver hues now unrecognizable. Its feathers are bent and broken at hazardous angles, as if it had been driven into the earth at alarming velocity. Dried blood clumps on its beak; it is silent, marble eyes unseeing.

Sorano cups the bird in her palms, brings it to her chest. When she exhales, her breath causes minute shifts in its feathers, as if teasing her. The quiet chatter of students mingling in the hallways around her is distant, little flickers of jokes and laughter, off and on. The gentle daylight sweeps in through the open doors, waiting.

Sorano presses a gentle finger to its rust-stained breast, noting the dirt clumped in her nails. There is no heartbeat to be felt, no pulse of blood beneath her fingertips.

"I'm sorry." Sorano whispers, but it's carried away by the breeze drifting in through the windows. She watches the creature with half-lidded eyes, suddenly overtaken by a brief, inconsolable misery. The scarf around her neck feels like a noose.

She buries the robin next to a mouse, a beetle, and a few earthworms that had come to a similar fate in the confinement they had been trapped in. She kneels in the grass, not bothering to adjust her skirt, digging with misshapen nails, dirt staining her woolen socks and clumping damply on her palms. Above, like clockwork, dainty heads shift, and wings flicker.

In the courtyard, songbirds chirp and chatter, singing sweet little tunes. Their companion lays dead, but they are none the wiser.

* * *

There's someone in the doorway. Pale, pearly skin, narrowed, mascara-coated lashes, magenta eyes gleaming under the strip light's gaze, their neon color swirling with crimson.

Sorano has seen this someone many times before—she recognizes her classmate's curly pink hair—though Sorano has never known the girl's name. Her followers and laughing behind her, soprano voices only rising in a steady hum, filling the cramped school bathroom.

They see her, standing there. The pinkette's lips split in a wicked, lipstick-stained grin.

She approaches Sorano silently, tensely, and stops just before the brunette, her glaring so wrathful that Sorano struggles to stay standing. There's something burning in her eyes, ruthless, commanding.

"Did you like your present this morning?" She begins, her voice overpowering as her followers fall silent. "Imagine my surprise when I saw you on the news—I simply _had_ to congratulate you, you know."

One of the girls behind her muffles a giggle behind her hand. Sorano only watches, ignoring the buzz of her phone in her coat pocket.

"I hoped I'd find you here." The pinkette murmurs, in a syrupy, sugar-coated way, "I couldn't catch you on the roof."

The low rumble of the air vent is heavy in the silence. Sorano waits, eyes half lidded, staring, staring, staring. She knows what is going to happen, but she can't do anything about it. _Sorano_ is the one with a villain's quirk, not the pinkette. _Sorano_ is the one with the death on her record, not the bully in front of her; so the brunette stands in absentminded patience, gaze never wavering, watching, staring, waiting. The air vent breaths behind her, sending chills down her spine when it exhales, and stagnant, quivering air when it inhales, like a creature waiting to strike.

Suddenly, a hand with perfectly filed nails lifts and rockets against Sorano's cheek. The palm cracks like a whip across her face, snapping her neck back with the force of the blow and causing her head to reel sickeningly as it slams into the wall behind it.

Sorano staggers, gasping, clutching her face as her skull pounds in pain, her russet eyes watering. The lankys let out pitchy jeers.

Sorano is lifted by her uniform collar and shoved into the wall once more.

"You _bitch!"_ The pinkette spits as Sorano struggles in her grip, tearing at the white-knuckled fist, "You don't deserve any of this! You don't deserve _shit_!"

Sorano is jostled in the merciless grasp and she sputters, choking on a breath.

"Why do _you_ get to be on the news? Why do _you_ get to be so popular?" The pinkette cries, her fists loosening; the assaulted teen sinks lifelessly, back scraping the wall, down onto the stained tiles below.

The livid girl stands above the brunette like an executioner, rambling with dilating pupils, "I've worked _so hard_ for _so long_ , _I've_ been the one trying to get myself out there, trying to get people to _notice_ , trying to be the _perfect_ daughter, the _perfect_ student, a _hero_ ," she kicks Sorano's shin with bone-shattering force, continuing with, "but _you_ get to be recognized?"

Sorano peers up at the girl through wide red-rimmed eyes, mouth slightly open, a glisten of snot shimmering above her cracked lips.

 _"It's a bad world, out there."_

The pinkette wails, tearing at her dainty curls and weeping and _screaming_ , her voice rising and rising above in the silence, a hurricane of harsh and hoarse insults whirling from her lips, every word pronounced in sharp syllables, slicing rather than tumbling through the dry air; Sorano curls in on herself, laying on her side, dirtying her white knee-highs on the bathroom floor.

"Why is it _you_? Why does it have to be _you_?" the girl hisses, her voice cracking with every word, and Sorano, shaking, begins to sob, her frail body quivering and lungs constricting and heart booming _pound pound pound pound._

" _YOU_ don't get to cry!" Dainty snaps, slamming her sneaker's sole into Sorano's gut, in a perfectly synchronized pattern with the pounding of Sorano's heart, again and again and again.

Bile and spit spills from Sorano's lips and onto the mud-covered tiles, her vision blurs as she endures hit after hit—Sorano says nothing as one of her ribs cracks, says nothing as blood mixes with the bile, says nothing when the pinkette's screaming blends with the frantic yelling of the other two girls, rising and rising in crescendo, a discord of pounding and shrieking and heaving breaths as everything fades into—

 _"The only people who have a say in it all are the heroes, of course."_

* * *

Sorano is glad her bones heal so quickly. She wishes her bruises could heal that fast too, because if she had come home spotless—albeit later than usual—she wouldn't've had to see that pitying, regretful, harrowing look on her aunt's face, silent and present, accepting yet knowing, she wouldn't've heard the her aunt's muffled cries, when the night was worn and the salon long since closed, she wouldn't've had bandages bound around her stomach on the day of her junior high graduation.

Her graduation is today. And she can't turn side to side without pain shooting through her stomach like fiery shocks and making her want to empty her breakfast all over he polished podium flooring.

Her classmates shuffle around her, like a massive being on many limbs, speaking with many voices. There are whispers, snickers, tugs on her uniform skirt, and Sorano shrinks away— _d_ _on't touch me, don't look at me, please_ —

" _Corpse,"_ they tease; Sorano is not a corpse. She's not a corpse, she wishes people would stop calling her one, because she's not, she's not, she's not—

— _yet sometimes she wishes she was, because if she was, her classmates wouldn't shove her anymore, her aunt wouldn't cry anymore, she wouldn't struggle with money anymore; someone would brush her pretty hair and dress her in flowing garments and shut the lid and she wouldn't have to see anyone anymore._ But the thought is banished with everything else, and her face is twisted into something blank, something apathetic.

Somehow, when stepping forward to receive her diploma, she doesn't keel over and wail, somehow, after walking off stage, she manages to smile, heart thumping unsteadily—she manages to wave at the clicking cameras, manages to nod at those who give her polite applause. _A corpse,_ the voices whisper, slinking past her mental block and onto the creases of her face, _a corpse._

The students, slowly but surely, each take their worthless certificates and hobble away to re-group with their family members, before leaving the building with relieved laughs and anticipating expressions. Sorano watches them noiselessly as she hobbles next to her aunt, observing their carefree eyes and prideful grins.

The boy near the buffet table pulled down her skirt in the fourth grade. The girls crowded in the back drew zombie-like images of her on the blackboard the first year of junior high. In elementary, the group of kids clumped in the aisles teamed up to get her publicly humiliated by dumping a bucket of red paint down her uniform shirt.

 _(A corpse,_ the voices scream.)

Sorano wonders if they'll remember.

* * *

There is a whisper of a breath, the endless song of the clock, the creak of an empty chair, a sigh. Damp, flushed cheeks, quivering fingers, a letter, unopened on the counter. Her aunt watches it in haunting silence, forewarning looming in the air, eyes never leaving the small package teetering on the edge of the table, the neatly printed symbols glaring back. Sorano approaches, timidly, hesitantly, and takes it in her palms, under her aunt's burning gaze.

Their house number is lined up in an orderly manner, and the return address is boxed in the top corner. _Yuui Academy_ , it states, _12 Mau Square, Masutafu Prefecture, Shizuoka, Japan 81540_. She tears the parcel open slowly, tentatively. She scans past the polite greetings near the beginning and reads into the body of the paragraph.

 _Sasaki Sorano showed promise in combat,_ the letter reads, crinkling in her tightened palms, _so she does not need to take the practical exam. She will take UA's entrance exam on theory on the following date: August 20, 21XX at 8:30 on UA campus. Sasaki has been recommended by the following pro hero(es): Chinami Haruka, alias Thunderbolt, the stormbringer hero; license of four years._ The rest is requirements, to send in report cards, sign forms and park in assigned garages on the date of the test. Most her aunt can fulfill, and Sorano will be taking the train, anyways.

The paper's edges are sharp, but they do not pierce her palms. Sorano's decision is final. Certainty flickers behind her clenched fists and half-lidded eyes. She ignores the voices in her head and the pounding behind her skull and waits.

There is nothing to say, yet Sorano still worries, waiting, waiting. Her aunt's eyes never leave the letter in Sorano's grasp. The teen stands in silence, two more minutes of heavy desolation, before her aunt turns away, no longer able to contain herself, and fall, to the click of the clock, trailing in familiar waves. Her aunt doesn't even muster up the courage to fake it. No stuttered congratulations, no false grins, no words leave the woman's mouth. Just hiccups and withheld sobs, little exhales and inhales that are so breathy they seem notional. She doesn't act on her anger, of course, as she so rarely does—no accusations, no stifled screams, no shrieks, no nails digging through patterned sleeves, just tears.

She weeps, and weeps, and weeps. Sorano wonders if that is all she can do.

* * *

The chair is cool, even after hours of sitting in the same spot. The soles of Sorano's sneakers scrape against the floor in a repetitive fashion, too faint a sound to be reprimanded for, but noticeable all the same. The theory exam's final page is full of blank horizontal lines, an essay to assess her skills. The prompt is printed black letters on the top of the page, brief, bland, simple.

 **Why do you want to be a hero?** The text states, bold and glaring against the stark white paper behind it. **Why do you want to be a hero?** Sorano reads it through, then reads it again, and again, and again, until the words start to jumble in her mind and she can't make sense of them anymore.

Sorano breaths, in, then out. In, then out. She thinks of the cuts on her hands, the wounds scattered around her knees, the cries of young children in the streets, the rumbling in the distance as the heroes scream and buildings burn. She thinks of the insults on her desk, scribbled over crude drawings in haphazardous strokes, the mocking jeers behind her back, the graveyard of creatures in the school's courtyard, the faint smell of rot in her locker. She thinks of her father, weeping over broken picture frames and empty cans, she thinks of her aunt's eyes, dull and flitting about, never meeting her gaze, she thinks of the boy in the store—matted hair, pupils dilated and fearful, bruises of purple and indigo scattered about like gruesome galaxies on his sunken cheeks.

 _I don't want anyone to get hurt anymore_ , She writes, but her hands shake minutely and it trails off into unintelligible scrawl.

* * *

The room is small and lined with cream-colored couches. On each couch sits a different student, each spot claimed as their own. Sorano feels uneasy, shifting on both feet. All the couches are taken.

After taking the written exam she felt confident, but now that she is surrounded by well-dressed examinees—some the sons and daughters of famous pro heroes—she wants to run away.

The room for recommended students is small. There isn't a table, there isn't a single chair. Just couches. And they are all taken.

"Um," someone supplies, their voice ringing in the silence, velvety and soft, "You can sit here,"

Sorano finds herself locking eyes with the most beautiful girl she has ever seen.

The owner of the musical voice sits in the corner, her navy pencil skirt contrasting with the cream slipcovers. Her ebony hair is neatly pulled back, her indigo eyes are polished and bright, her cheeks are dusted with a hint of makeup, pale and spotless and prepossessing.

Speechless, Sorano doesn't move for a second—when she does, it's a jerky movement that leaves her slightly flushed and sends the beautiful girl into a short fit of giggles.

Sorano plops down next to her, scrunching up her knee-length skirt in her fists and looking down at her worn sneakers.

After an eternity of awkward silence on the cream colored couch, the raven-haired teen speaks again.

"What's your name?" She questions, tucking her fringe behind her ear, "I'm Yaoyorozu Momo."

Sorano glances at her out of the corner of her eye, then fiddles with her baby blue blouse. "Sasaki Sorano."

"You're nervous, aren't you?" Yaoyorozu states the obvious, her lips pulled in an entrancing smile.

"Yeah." Sorano states evenly, embarrassed.

"It's alright," Yaoyorozu reassures, "I am, too."

Sorano's gaze, which had been previously trained on the floor, shoots immediately at Yaoyorozu's face, searching for the hint of paranoia that the brunette shares. Sorano finds it, in the sweat on the ravenette's brow and the fingers that tap against each other in a jittery pattern.

"You are," Sorano confirms.

Yaoyorozu nods. "Well, every moment from now on defines our futures. We have a right, don't we?"

A silence falls between them, comforting and peaceful. They listen to the ticking of the clock and the tapping of Yaoyorozu's tap in a gentle pattern, one that almost seems mechanical, in a graceful sort of way.

"Do you play piano?"

Yaoyorozu jumps a little at the sudden question, but soon smiles, locking eyes Sorano, who watches her movements blankly.

"Yes," she replies, "I enjoy it."

"Do you play jazz music?" Sorano inquires.

Yaoyorozu shakes her head. "Mostly classical."

"That's wonderful," Sorano states, and though her voice is as monotone as always, there's sincerity to her words. "You should play some jazz, too. You look like you would enjoy it."

"Do I?" Yaoyorozu's eyes crinkle as she smiles.

Sorano nods, "Very much."

Yaoyorozu's grin shakes, as if she is trying not to laugh. Sorano cocks her head, questioning, but that only seems to make Momo's grin quiver more.

"Sasaki-san," Yaoyorozu blurts, "may we be friends?"

Sorano makes a strangled noise and chokes on air; hiding the spastic movement by coughing into her fist. She meets eyes with Yaoyorozu once more and stares, unblinking.

"Ah—are you alright, Sasaki-san?"

Caught in the act, Sorano stumbles for an answer, racking her head for an excuse so she can escape this now horribly awkward situation. Sorano opens her mouth and closes it, brain on overdrive, because there is a whole room full of examinees who are listening to her humiliating responses.

"You're very pretty." Sorano adds. "Sorry. It makes me nervous."

Yaoyorozu is momentarily taken aback, her lips parting in a perfect _o_. Then the ravenette bursts into a ringing, warm sort of laughter, that makes the room seem less like a cage and more like a home.

Sorano finds her lips perking near the edges; she can't understand why she's never met a girl this nice before.

"Hey, let's be friends, too!" A stranger exclaims, and Yaoyorozu's giggling falls abruptly silent; they turn to face a boy with hair as blonde as Sorano's aunt's.

"I'm Monoma Neito," he introduces, a confident grin causing his eyes to crinkle near the edges, "I'm not nervous, because I'm guaranteed a spot at this place—but hey, it's cool if you two are."

His arrogance, though a bit of a bad first impression, is somewhat reassuring to Sorano. He's got that sort of snarky look to him that can make people aggravated and take others by surprise.

Yaoyorozu frowns at his words. "How do you know you're guaranteed?" She interrogates, "they haven't released the results, we _just_ took the test."

"It's because of my quirk," he reasons, giving her a cheeky grin, "it's the most heroic quirk in here, I bet. Cooler than yours, probably. I mean, I won't know until I _have_ yours, though."

Monoma winks in an unusual way, and Yaoyorozu raises a brow, puzzled.

"I'm sure it's really cool." Sorano states.

Both teens gaze curiously at her, and Sorano fidgets, startled by her own commentary. "I mean, I'm sure you both have powerful quirks. Since you're recommended."

Yaoyorozu hides her flush behind her palm, and Monoma shoots her a cocky grin.

"Hey," the blonde continues, "You guys gotta let me borrow your quirks sometime! That's what I can do, borrow quirks."

"Really?" Yaoyorozu wonders curiously.

Sorano feels just as intrigued.

"Yeah!" Monoma affirms. "Only for five minutes, though. But that's how I know I'm getting in—along with my top-notch strategizing."

"Well," Yaoyorozu adds, "I can create anything—non-living—that I'd like from my fat cells, if I know its molecular structure and the way it's made."

Monoma gasps dramatically, grey eyes widening, "You _have_ to let me try that sometime!"

Yaoyorozu shakes her head bashfully, her ponytail shifting with the movement, "We'll see."

The loudspeaker crackles to life, and the teens are notified that they're allowed to leave. Yaoyorozu and Sorano stand due to this announcement, and Monoma quickly follows, scampering with them out into the hallway with the crowd of examinees.

The moment they separate from the chaotic mess of people, Monoma rushes for the exit.

"See you guys in high school!" the blonde yells, racing out the glass doors in a flurry of sunshine-yellow locks and blinding white grins.

"I'm glad we met," Yaoyorozu mentions, waving, "it's good to know that I'll be starting out with a friend."

Sorano watches her go, until she too slips into the shifting crowds. The brunette brings her fingers to her lips, tracing the upturned corners with something warm shifting inside.


End file.
